


Good as Gold

by corruptedkid



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: 2018 Winter Olympics, Celebrity Crush, Fluff, M/M, snowboarder!frank
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-08-29 12:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16743598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corruptedkid/pseuds/corruptedkid
Summary: Gerard doesn't care about sports, even if it is the Olympics. And hedefinitelydoesn't have a crush on Frank Iero.





	Good as Gold

**Author's Note:**

> this au started as a shitpost i made while watching the winter olympics back in february. i can't believe i actually wrote it.
> 
> suspend the SHIT out of your disbelief... i know nothing about sports i just think snowboarding is cool

Nothing was ever as good as it looked on camera. Gerard knew that better than anybody else--most of the time, he was the one filming. It was his job to make things seem better than they actually were. But when a lucky break sent him off to cover the goddamn Winter Olympics, all his years of experience went flying out the window. If anything was as magical as it looked on TV, it had to be the winter games. 

Then Pyeongchang swept in with a blast of cold reality. 

Gerard adjusted his gloves for what felt like the fiftieth time that day. He loved Pyeongchang, he really did, but standing on the side of a mountain all day was not his idea of a good time. It was just his luck to have to cover the snowboarding. Mikey got to stay inside and watch the figure skaters--lucky bastard--while Gerard was stuck out here, flinching every time one of the athletes went off a jump. He was still convinced someone was going to break their neck by the time the games were over.

At least he’d be able to get away soon. The qualifiers would be over after the next few athletes went, and then Gerard would be free to go out for _jjamppong_ with Mikey and Ray. They had made a pact to eat their way through the city over the course of their three week stay. 

An announcer’s voice echoed from the loudspeaker. Gerard hitched his camera up over his shoulder, adjusting the lens to focus on the spot where the next athlete would come into view.

A few seconds later, a streak of blue came racing down the hill. Gerard’s grip on the camera tightened as it approached the jump. The snowboarder vanished, then flew out into the open air, turning a full flip before he hit the ground. The crowd of spectators cheered. He sped down to the base of the hill and curved his board sharply to come to a halt, sending up a spray of snow. 

He lifted his goggles off and unhooked one boot from his board, kicking his way over to the side to wait for his score. Gerard didn’t know shit about the Olympic system, but he figured the guy had done well--he hadn’t landed on his head, at least.

For all intents and purposes, Gerard probably wasn’t qualified to be in Pyeongchang. He’d shot sports coverage before, but it wasn’t his usual wheelhouse; he was typically on political news. He was scheduled to get some stories in on the political climate over the next couple weeks, but his network had been short-staffed for some fucking reason, and they decided it would be a good idea to put him on the men’s snowboarding.

Because that made total sense. 

He didn’t really have the right to complain, though. Most people would kill to be in his position. And when he wasn’t freezing his balls off on the mountain, Gerard had to admit, he was having a decent time.

The announcer’s voice rang out from the loudspeaker with the scores. The athlete with the blue coat whooped and shot one fist into the air. His sleeve had a miniature American flag patch on it. Gerard hadn’t noticed it when he was zooming down the hill. Now that he’d taken his goggles off, Gerard actually recognized him--he was the one from Jersey, the one people said was a shoo-in for the gold. What was his name again? Something with too many vowels?

Gerard switched his camera off, lowering it from his shoulder. He still didn’t know shit about the Olympic system, but he figured that when a fellow Jersey native got a good score, some congratulations were in order.

The guy was leaning over the divider that separated the course from the spectators, engaged in conversation with somebody important-looking. Probably a coach. Gerard hovered for a second--maybe he should just go back--but then the guy looked up and caught his eye.

“Hey,” Gerard said, giving him an awkward little wave and then immediately regretting everything. Why did he always fucking wave at people? 

“That was really cool!” he tried again. “Nice, uh, flips. Good job on not breaking your neck.”

Someone shoot him. 

“Thanks,” the guy said with a grin. “I do try.” His eyes sparkled in the sunlight, lit up with the excitement of a good run and something a little more down-to-earth, something infectious. Gerard found himself smiling back.

“He’s right,” the coach said. “You keep that up, you’ll be taking home a medal. Let’s talk about that last rotation, though. You lost points when you let go of the board towards the end, you’ll need to--“

Gerard recognized a dismissal when he saw it. He started to back away. The guy waved at him, giving him one last flash of that brilliant smile. Gerard’s cheeks burned. It was probably just the wind. He’d forgotten his scarf back at the hotel. But, as he was trudging back to his post, he did remember one thing--the athlete’s name. 

Frank Iero. That was it. Gerard didn’t know how he could have forgotten. Frank was a huge name, a rising star. A future medalist, if the rumors were to be believed. And apparently drop dead gorgeous, too.

Fuck Gerard's life.

***

“You guys know anything about Frank Iero?” Gerard asked. 

Ray was in the middle of slurping down a forkful of noodles. His eyes lit up; he swallowed quickly. “Know him?” he said incredulously. “Dude, I wrote the book on him! He got fucking robbed back in Sochi, he should’ve medaled back then. You know he was only eighteen?”

“He’s a PR nightmare, though,” Mikey said through a mouthful of kimchi. “He’s got a fuckin’ sailor’s mouth on him, apparently.”

“No worse than the rest of us,” Ray said with a shrug. “He’s just the one that has to worry about getting caught on camera.”

“Yeah,” Mikey agreed. “But I’ve heard he’s kind of intimidating, too.”

“Really? I didn’t think so,” Gerard said, frowning.

Ray let his spoon fall with a clatter. “Wait,” he said, his eyes wide “Are you saying you got to--“

“I was covering the slopestyle qualifiers, remember?” Gerard asked, taking another sip of his soup. “I saw him do his run, went over to congratulate him. He seemed nice. I didn’t really get to talk to him, but, y’know.”

“What was his score?” Ray wanted to know.

“Beats me,” Gerard said. “I can’t keep track of all that stuff. It must’ve been good, though, he seemed pretty happy.”

Ray sighed and picked up his spoon again, looking disappointed. “You’re so wasted on the Olympics.”

“That’s why I’m asking you for the info, asshole,” Gerard said. “I’m supposed to know politics, not cute snowboarders.” 

Mikey froze with his chopsticks halfway up to his mouth. The corner of Ray’s lips twitched. Oh, God. Gerard hastily took a spoonful of soup, but it was too late; Ray burst out laughing. “So _that’s_ why you’re interested!” he said. “I should’ve known, you never care about sports--“

“It’s the fucking Olympics, it’s an exception!” Gerard protested. He could feel his cheeks heating up. “And he’s local, of course I’m gonna be rooting for--“

“Bet you wish he was a little more local, huh?” Ray asked, grinning from ear to ear. “Keep that camera on hand, you’ll wanna make sure you get all the best shots.”

Gerard buried his face in his hands. “You’re awful,” he said, his voice muffled. “Awful. I didn’t even _mean_ anything, I was just _saying_. I only saw him for like, thirty seconds, anyway.”

“You get crushes on people who walk past you at Starbucks,” Mikey said.

“It’s not a fucking _crush_ ,” Gerard groaned, but it was too late. He was never going to live this down. Mikey and Ray just didn’t understand; they hadn’t been there. Yeah, Frank was cute, and could pull off some superhuman-level stunts, but he was also kind of a fucking celebrity. Who Gerard did not know. At all. For all Gerard knew, he could be a total asshole, or, like, engaged. Something unfortunate like that.

“He probably has a girlfriend anyway,” Gerard said without thinking.

Motherfucker. 

It was going to take them years to stop talking about this, he thought sorrowfully. Judging by Ray’s hoots of laughter, it could even be decades. He was going to live out his days as the guy who crushed on Frank Iero at the Olympics.

Except it wasn’t a fucking crush. Gerard was sticking to his word on that.

***

There wasn’t any particular reason Gerard showed up to watch the snowboarders practice. It was the Olympics; why shouldn’t he enjoy it? When he wasn’t behind the camera, he was as free to spectate as anyone else. Even if there weren’t any medals at stake, it was fun to watch.

It’d be more fun if he could get himself to stop wincing every time someone wiped out, but still. 

The Americans were out in full force today. Gerard had done a little reading on the stats--apparently, the U.S. was by far the biggest player when it came to snowboarding, followed by Switzerland. He’d have to take the internet’s word for it; they all looked pretty damn skilled to him.

The tiny silhouette of a boarder snaked down the mountain, skating off rails and mini halfpipes. They vanished as they approached the first jump, then launched into the sky. Gerard braced himself. They soared through the air, turning two neat flips just before hitting the ground. They wobbled a bit on the landing, but carried on down the hill. Someone near Gerard cheered in a language he couldn’t understand.

The next jump was bigger. Gerard had seen at least ten people wipe out on it that morning. With the first of the final slopestyle rounds approaching, the athletes were going bigger and better, pushing the boundaries of possibility with every trick. Or, that’s what it looked like to Gerard. They had all long since surpassed his expectations of what was humanly possible. At this point, he wouldn’t be surprised if they all admitted to having superpowers.

The boarder rocketed off the jump. They kept a tight grip on the edge of their board as they flew, but even Gerard could see that this trick wasn’t as polished as the previous one; the rotations were too slow, the motions not precise enough. 

He blinked, and the boarder crashed into the ground, tumbling another forty feet down the slope before coming to a halt. Gerard gasped. A medic ran onto the course, crouching down over the athlete. He helped the boarder pull their helmet off, revealing a long blonde ponytail. They--she--slowly started to get up. Gerard breathed a sigh of relief. If she could stand, she was all right.

The medic helped her detach her boots from her board, and she limped down to the base of the hill. 

Gerard watched her meet her coach and walk off, hanging her head. It made his chest twinge with sympathy. He hated seeing people get hurt, but getting hurt a few days prior to a life-changing competition? That was just awful.

The next boarder was already speeding down the hill. They followed the same track as the girl, from rail to halfpipe to the first jump. Their coat was a shock of blue against the cloudy sky. Gerard had to look away. When he dared to peek back up at the trail, the boarder was already coming up on the second jump. Gerard’s hands clenched in his lap.

They turned a tight corkscrew in the air, rotating in a way that _definitely_ should have led to a collision and/or brain damage. Gerard knew before they came down that it wouldn’t be a perfect landing. The edge of their board hit the snow, and they went skidding off to the side. They didn’t seem hurt, though, thank God; they just got up and glided down the rest of the slope. 

As they rode the momentum down past Gerard, they tugged their helmet off, shaking a head of dark hair free. It was Frank. He wasn’t smiling this time, though. He mostly looked disappointed. Gerard almost wanted to say something, but Frank rode on past him, heading back to the lift.

Gerard stayed to watch for the rest of the afternoon. He told himself it wasn’t for Frank, but he hated to see Frank looking so down. He wanted to see him smile again.

But he didn’t make the jump. There was always something, some tiny detail or imperfection that kept him going back up. A few times, Gerard thought he had finally gotten it, but each trial was always followed by a next. 

Gerard knew he could get it eventually. He hoped Frank knew it, too.

***

The men’s slopestyle had three rounds of competition: the qualifiers, then two final runs. The qualifiers had passed, narrowing the competition down to twelve athletes. Frank was in sixth place.

Not that Gerard had been keeping track of his scores or anything.

The first of the final runs was tomorrow. The practice slope was packed with boarders, each trying to get in those last few runs. Gerard could practically feel the stress coming off them in waves. Their highs were higher, but their lows were lower; Pete Wentz had wiped out so hard on an earlier run that for a moment, Gerard had actually thought he was dead.

Frank had been out on the terrain park for a while, but he vanished a couple hours ago, probably to go eat something. Gerard was thinking about leaving soon, too. As cool as it was to watch people careening off mounds of snow, dinner was a necessity. 

Gerard craned his neck to look up the course. There didn’t seem to be anyone coming down; that was as good a sign as any. He hugged his arms around his middle, shivering in the cold. Yeah. Time to go in and eat. 

He turned back and started to trudge toward the buildings below. He turned and looked over his shoulder as he went, peeking upwards, just in case a boarder decided to come streaking down. Trohman had been hitting some awesome air today; Gerard would hate to miss it.

Fuck. He’d actually gotten invested in this shit, hadn’t he?

He turned around and bumped straight into someone.

“Shit!” he said. “Sorry, I totally wasn’t--“

“No problem!” Frank said. “I get it, I’m always trying to watch everybody else, too. I’m always running into people. You’re lucky I wasn’t on a board this time around.”

“You’re Frank Iero,” Gerard said stupidly.

“Last time I checked,” Frank said, cracking a smile. He gave Gerard a quick once-over. “I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before,” he said. 

“You probably have,” Gerard said. “I’m a camera operator, so. I’m always around.”

“No, that’s not it,” Frank said, scrunching up his nose. This had to be some kind of cruel joke played by God. No one should be that adorable, especially not celebrity fucking athletes.

“Have you been around the hill recently?” Frank asked.

Gerard nodded. “I’ve been watching you guys practice, yeah.”

“Yeah, that’s it!” Frank pointed at him. “I’ve seen you! But it’s…” He paused. “I dunno, you still look familiar for some reason. Where’re you from?”

Gerard smiled. “Jersey, actually.”

“No way!” said Frank, delighted. “What city?”

“Belleville,” said Gerard.

Frank’s eyes went wide. “Oh, you have got to be shitting me.”

Gerard’s jaw dropped. “Wait, are you--“

“I’m from Belleville, too. I used to go to Queen of Peace, y’know, the little - “

“Catholic school? Shit, man, I was at Belleville High.” They probably hadn’t seen each other at school, though; Gerard never really interacted with the Queen of Peace kids. He’d mostly been a hermit. It was either the basement, or…

“Did you ever go to the comic shop off Madison street?” he blurted out.

Frank laughed out loud. “Only all the fucking time, yeah. That’s got to be it. Holy shit, dude. That’s fucking crazy. I mean, out of all the people to come watch me fall over all day.” He looked up over at the mountain. It was starting to get dark, the giant floodlights kicking on to light up the snowy slope. 

“I should probably go,” he said. “Just--finals tomorrow, y’know.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Gerard said quickly. “Good luck with it--or break a leg or whatever. Yeah.”

“I’ll try not to fuck it up,” Frank said with a grin. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint the people back home, right?”

“‘Course not.”

Frank lowered his goggles down and fitted them over his eyes. “You should watch the runs tomorrow,” he said. “Or come back to practice sometime. I still can’t believe we just ran into each other, that’s so crazy.”

Gerard couldn’t agree more. “I’ll be there,” he promised. “I might be busy filming, though.”

“Hm. I guess I’ll just have to keep an eye out, then.” Frank glanced up at the hill again, then back at Gerard. “So. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Oh! It’s Gerard. Gerard Way.” Gerard smiled sheepishly. “Probably should’ve led with that, huh?”

“Eh, you got by without it well enough.” Frank stuck out a gloved hand. “Nice to meet you, Gerard.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Gerard said, and shook his hand.

Things like this didn’t just happen. Even as he was walking inside, texting Mikey, going off to get food, Gerard couldn’t stop thinking about it. He didn’t really believe in fate, but he did believe one thing: when you met somebody from your hometown in the middle of a foreign country, it was never a one-off. 

He would see Frank again.

***

After the run, Frank had managed to fight his way into third place. Gerard was there to watch every second of it.

As he left the slope, Frank caught Gerard’s eye and waved, grinning like a maniac.

Gerard waved back.

***

Fuck. Mother shitting _fuck._

Of _course_ Gerard’s halfpipe shifts had to fall right when Frank was supposed to be practicing. Just when Gerard thought his luck had been getting good, it went and did a complete one-eighty. It wasn’t even the good kind of one-eighty. It was the kind that didn’t complete the rotation, hit the ground too soon, and went tumbling down the goddamn mountain. 

Gerard was not in the best of moods.

Thankfully, he wasn’t a reporter, so the epic bitchface he was undoubtedly displaying didn’t interfere with his work.

Ray kept walking around in circles, his boom mic trailing in the air behind him. Years he’d had that thing. Years, and he was still hitting Gerard in the head with it. “Watch it,” Gerard said irritably. 

Ray adjusted his grip. “You’re a little pissy today.”

“Side effect of getting brained with your microphone every other day.”

Ray smiled sheepishly. “At least we’ll be live soon,” he said. “I’ll try and pay more attention until then, sorry. But look at this!” He gestured up at the halfpipe, where boarders were taking their last few practice runs. His mic swung dangerously, but he grabbed it and corrected its position before he could hit anyone. “Isn’t it a little exciting? You haven’t even seen the halfpipe yet, have you?”

Gerard shook his head. He’d pretty much only been paying attention to the slopestyle. The halfpipe is somehow more intimidating--if you fucked up a landing on the course, you had a chance of rolling to safety. If you fucked up on the halfpipe, you went splat on the ground. Or the rim. Or the sides, which were vertical and not exactly conducive to rolling.

Ray looked over toward the gaggle of reporters and other camera operators. “Shit, I think we’re going live in a second. C’mon.” He hurried over to his station. Gerard got in position, flicking on his camera and double-checking to make sure the settings were just so. 

“Hey!” said Lindsey. She had her mic stuffed beneath her armpit, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest. Her red coat didn’t seem to be doing much to stop her shivering. “There you are, I was starting to get worried.”

“Aren’t you freezing?” Gerard asked, training the focus on the halfpipe. “Get a hat or something, jeez.”

“I’d be wearing a parka if I could,” Lindsey said dryly. “But I’m a woman, so, y’know. Gotta wear thin enough layers that they can still see my hips.”

Gerard frowned. “That’s--“

“Fucked up and sexist, yes, I know. That’s just how it is when you put a girl behind a camera. If I could change it, I would, but I’m about to be on national television so I really can’t get fired up about it right now.” Lindsey rubbed her hands over her arms and took out her microphone. 

A voice from the loudspeaker came as their signal. “Looks like it’s go time,” she said, putting on her sunniest smile.

Gerard spent the next hour watching highly-trained lunatics fly through the air, trying not to jostle the camera whenever he flinched. But despite the suspense, it was kind of enjoyable. He found himself keeping track of the score in the back of his mind. Some of the athletes he recognized--they doubled up on events, apparently--so he silently rooted for them.

During a break, he set down the camera and stretched his arms. The slopes were as brightly lit as ever, but the sky overhead had turned black as pitch.

Gerard let his head fall back to take in the stars. He never even knew the sky could look like this. Back at home, the light pollution blotted it all out, smearing the sky with dusky gray even on the clearest nights. But this… It was like looking straight into the universe, in all its brilliance.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said a soft voice.

Gerard nodded distractedly. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“Yeah, Jersey isn’t exactly a place for stargazing.”

Gerard’s head jerked back fast enough to give him whiplash. Frank wiggled his fingers in greeting. “Hey,” he said. “Funny seeing you here.”

“Hi,” Gerard said, suddenly breathless. “Aren’t you--I thought you were supposed to be practicing right now.”

“Eh, I decided to take a break. I had people I wanted to see,” Frank said with a smile.

Gerard looked over at the halfpipe. “Yeah, they are pretty incredible. You got any bets on who’ll take the gold?”

“Weeell,” Frank said, his expression shifting into something more like a smirk, “I really shouldn’t say… professionalism, friendships, all that shit.” He lowered his voice. “But my money’s on Trohman.”

Gerard laughed. He was just about to respond when the announcer’s voice sounded again, and he caught sight of Lindsey waving frantically at him. “Ah, shit. Listen, I’m kinda working right now, but I’ll catch you later, okay?” He picked up his camera and hefted it over his shoulder.

“Maybe,” Frank said airily. “Or maybe I’ll just hang around until your next break.”

Gerard grinned to himself as he did his usual double-check on the settings. “Whatever you want, Frank.”

“I just figured, if we’re gonna keep running into each other, I might as well get your number or something.”

Gerard stared at Frank, his camera momentarily forgotten. It slipped from its position, dropping for one heart-stopping moment before he managed to get a grip on it again. Gerard let out a breath of relief. Jesus, his life had almost flashed before his eyes there. This whole crushing-on-Frank-Iero thing was becoming a hazard. 

“What do you think?” Frank asked, grinning. “Good idea?”

Platonic. Nothing more. Gerard couldn’t go entertaining fantasies, especially when he was about to go on air. “Yeah,” he said, keeping a death grip on his camera. “But do me a favor and don’t ask me questions when I’ve got this thing rolling. I’d probably get in trouble if my personal conversations ended up on air.”

“I’ve said ‘fuck’ on TV, like, three times now,” Frank said with a wave of his hand. “It wouldn’t be too bad. But I’ll keep that in mind.” He stepped back, allowing Gerard to move past him on his way to his station. “I’ll be here,” he called as Gerard hustled away. 

Gerard was glad his back was turned. He couldn’t get himself to stop smiling.

***

Each Olympic sport had its own sort of beauty, but figure skating was unparalleled. Gerard could watch the skaters leap and twirl around the ice for hours. In the spectacle of it all, it was easy to forget the fact that they were spinning at fifteen miles per hour with blades strapped to their feet. Well, kind of. Gerard always held his breath when someone took off for a jump.

At least it was less stressful than snowboarding.

“Who’s that?” Gerard asked, pointing down at the boy who was gliding in wide circles about the rink. 

“Brendon Urie,” said Mikey, tapping away at his phone. “He’s American. Seventeen.”

“Holy shit,” Gerard said. It never failed to shock him just how young some of the athletes were. The greatest thing he’d ever accomplished at age seventeen was landing a job at the local comic shop.

“Yeah.” Mikey glanced up from his phone and did a double take. “Oh, here we go,” he muttered, leaning forward a little. “Ross incoming.”

“Who?” Gerard looked back down at the rink. Another skater had entered the rink, breezing right past Urie. He turned and spun through the air, sending up a spray of ice shards as he landed neatly on one foot.

“Double toe loop,” Mikey commented. “Good form.”

“Who’s he?” Gerard asked, watching the skater weave his way along the rink. 

“Ryan Ross. He’s American, too. From Vegas, I think, same as Urie.”

“Huh. Y’think they know each other?” 

The corner of Mikey’s mouth twitched. “Yeah,” he said, tapping at his phone once again. “I think they know each other real well.”

Gerard looked down to the ice, then back at Mikey. “You don’t mean--“

“Twenty bucks says Urie’s come out of the closet by the time he hits Tokyo. Ray’s betting it’ll happen by the end of this year, but I’m not sure. I don’t know about Ross, either, he seems kinda stealth.”

Urie brushed past Ross and whipped into a turn. He landed with his arms outstretched and one leg up, the picture of grace. 

“That’s gotta be hard,” Gerard murmured. “I mean, it’s hard enough when you’re a normal kid, but… a place like this has got to be harsh. At least he’s a skater, there must at least a couple other gay people around.”

Mikey gave him a weird look. “Are you for real?”

“Not to be stereotypical,” Gerard said quickly. “I’m just saying, it’s probably--“

“You think there aren’t other gay people here?” Mikey asked. “Dude. There are _thousands_ of athletes. Have you even read the statistics on how many condoms they stuff into the Olympic village? It’s a giant fuckfest in there. There’ve gotta be at least a hundred queer people, if not more.”

Gerard stared. “What? No way, I would’ve heard about it.”

“Not from the news, you wouldn’t,” said Mikey, exasperated. “You’re so dumb sometimes.”

“But that’s… are they all just hiding it?” Even as soon as the question left his mouth, Gerard knew the answer. Of course people would hide it. There were all kinds of countries represented in Pyeongchang, not just gay-friendly ones. And the rest of the world was watching, too.

“So any of these people might not be straight,” Gerard said. “And we’d never know. Unless we, like, asked.”

Mikey’s lips twitched again, edging into a grin. “You’re so _dumb_ sometimes,” he said.

***

Gerard had dodged a fucking bullet. He’d been on semi-normal assignments for the past few days--meaning, covering his own subject area instead of sports--and after all that work, he’d earned a break. He could do any number of things with it. He could explore Pyeongchang some more, take some awesome photos of the mountains, kick around the tourist shops. Or he could go see the final run of the men’s slopestyle.

It wasn’t even a question, really.

“Kick some ass!” Ray shouted into his cupped hands. Pete Wentz shot down the slope like a bullet, flying off the last jump into a hurricane of a spin, the same one he’d crashed so many times at practice. Gerard held his breath. He landed with a neat cut through the snow. 

“Fuck yeah, he got it!” Gerard yelled. The crowd around him cheered.

It was so refreshing to be there as a spectator for once, not as anyone else’s eyes. Even when he’d gone to watch the athletes practice, it hadn’t been the same; he hadn’t really _understood_ yet. Maybe he still hadn’t, up until this very moment. He was surrounded by the old fans and the new, the diehards and those who were there because they could be. None of them gave a shit about screaming for joy when their favorites won or wincing when they didn’t. Gerard couldn’t help but get caught up in it. After one particularly death-defying flip from a Canadian boarder, he actually found himself clinging to Ray and jumping up and down, shouting “Did you fucking see that?” over and over again. 

How could he have ever complained about being here? It was the fucking Olympics. It was the entire world coming together into one giant blaze of glory, and fuck if it wasn’t a sight to see.

And then the commentator announced the name he’d been waiting for all day. 

Frank Iero of the United States of America, of New Jersey, of Gerard’s hometown. Gerard hadn’t seen much of him today, but his name was everywhere. It was like a current running through the crowds, a kind of kinetic energy driven by thoughts and bets and camera flashes. 

Gerard was on the edge of his seat when Frank came into view. He was already doing fantastic; if he kept up his current score, he’d medal for sure. 

The terrain park seemed to sparkle in the sunlight. Frank jumped up onto a rail, sliding down backwards, then spun off it again, grabbing his board in the air. His back hand hovered dangerously close to the ground when he landed--don’t touch, don’t fucking _touch_ idiot that’s points off--but he yanked it up at the last moment.

“Yes!” Gerard shouted, throwing his fists up.

Frank flew off a smaller jump, grabbing the edge of his board before he landed. Next was the rainbow, a giant arc of a thing--Gerard didn’t know how Frank got air off it and still landed on his feet, but he made it look easy. The real clincher was the next three jumps. Gerard grabbed for Ray’s shoulder reflexively. 

Frank’s board went nearly vertical off the first jump. He spun like a top, but landed and went streaking down in a straight line. One down, two to go. Come on, come _on._ He flew off the second, rotating once, twice, three--

“Frontside triple cork 1440!” Ray yelled in Gerard’s ear. “Holy _shit_ , that was fantastic, did you see--“

“Shut up, shut up!” Gerard flapped his hand in Ray’s face. Frank was riding in backwards toward the final jump. Gerard jumped up and down, the suspense ramping up higher and higher as Frank shot toward the edge.

One rotation. Gravity had released its hold on him. A second. Frank hung in the air like he was weightless. A third. Gerard hardly dared to blink, it happened so fast. A fourth. Like a star falling to earth, he burned his path through the sky, and then--

a _fifth_.

Frank hit the ground in one piece. He wobbled a little, and his hand scraped the ground, but he was on his feet, fucking alive and superhuman, and that was a goddamn medal if Gerard had ever seen one. The crowd erupted. Ray was screaming his head off. “That was a backside quad cork 1800!” he said, jumping on Gerard. “I don’t even-- _nobody_ does that!”

Frank rode down to the end of the track and scraped to a halt. Gerard didn’t even think before he got up and ran.

Frank had ripped off his helmet and goggles, his hair sticking out everywhere. Cameras swarmed around him, reporters standing by just behind them. Frank’s coach came over and threw his arms around him, clapping him on the back. 

Two minutes of agony before the scores came in, and that was it. There was no way anyone could possibly top that. Frank threw up his arms and whooped. His coach slapped his hand in a high-five, and the reporters descended, firing off their questions for snowboarding’s newest legend.

Gerard waited his turn.

When Frank was finally given some breathing room, he looked back over his shoulder, and his eyes landed on Gerard. “Gerard!” he said, delighted, and ran over.

“I think you owe me a number,” Gerard said, feeling just a bit giddy. “I came to collect.”

“Hell yeah, man, give me your phone.” Frank tugged off his gloves and tossed them aside so Gerard could pass it over.

“So, here’s the thing,” Gerard said before he could lose his nerve. “I don’t know if I should be telling you this, but there’s this guy, right? And I really like him, except up until last week I thought he didn’t like dudes.”

Frank grinned down at Gerard’s phone. “And what do you think now?” he asked.

“Now I’m hoping that he’s going to use that number to ask me out, ‘cause if he doesn’t I’m gonna have to do it myself.”

Frank looked eye, his eyes sparkling. 

“Looks like today’s a lucky day for both of us, then,” he said, and kissed Gerard square on the fucking mouth. There were people everywhere, there were _cameras_ everywhere, but none of it mattered, because Gerard was on top of the world. They always said the Olympic games were magical, but this was something even better.

This was golden.


End file.
